


The Night

by a_artic



Series: A Day with Kihyun [2]
Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16798123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_artic/pseuds/a_artic





	The Night

I repeatedly turn on and off the video doorbell. An empty hallway remains without change. I press my head against the cool touchscreen. For the tenth time, I call Kihyun. Now it just goes straight to voicemail. Resigned, I wander into our bedroom. The sheets lay haphazardly on my side of the bed. Kihyun’s side is neatly fixed and tucked into the corners. I fall into the bed and embrace his pillow. Cologne and minty shampoo comfort my nerves as I bury my face into the pillow. A throbbing headache rings through my head. The silence is even louder.

Unsure of what to do, I mindlessly scroll through my photos on my phone. Hundreds of our photos, smiling and free, stare back at me. Our honeymoon photos hit me the hardest. Back then, I couldn’t even imagine saying the things I did tonight. You really screwed up now, I think. Kihyun’s a saint if he forgives me.

One video particular video stands out amongst the crowd. I hit play and raise the volume. A secret recording of Kihyun working at the dinner table plays. He hums to himself, writing and scratching out something on a piece of paper. Despite being a rough outline of a song, Kihyun’s affinity for ballads is clear in its composition.

“That sounds nice,” Me in the video says.

Kihyun turns around, smiles, and says, “Really? I’m not sure.”

“Please. You’re great. Nothing you write could ever be bad.”

The exaggerated compliant lands well and the video ends. A final frame of Kihyun’s bashful pride feels like someone punching me in the sternum. Unable to continue looking at the image, I toss my phone aside and walk towards my office.

The computer flutters to life. I quickly type out a lie. I say the internet keeps cutting in and out, and send the half-finished proposal to my boss. If he has a problem with it, he can do it himself. I’m tired. I turn off the screen and slam the door closed to the office.

I go back to the master and into Kihyun’s side of the closet. Rows of simple and refined clothes fill his area. Mixed between are a few stage outfits. I go into a drawer underneath the clothing rack. I grab his oldest, most stretch white tee and put it on. Despite its thin fabric and worn neck, it feels warm and soft. It smells just like his pillow. It feels like Kihyun’s wrapping his arms around me. Like he is telling me everything will be alright. Still, I’m not sure, but sensing him close eases my nerves. Just how long will the night be, I question.

# # #

The faint sound of cars meandering past our apartment building mingles with the dripping of water from our sink. I sit in front of the TV for I don’t know how long. It feels like hours and seconds all at once. Videos of Monsta X performances play on a loop. My heart stutters when the first episode of “No Mercy” starts to play. I go to skip the video, unprepared to even start watching the survival program. Until Kihyun’s face shows on the intro. He looks like a child almost. A child trying to be tough. Kihyun never talked much about the show. He didn’t have to. All survival programs are the same. For entertainment, the participants place their pride and self-esteem on the line. “No Mercy” was no different.

Somewhere between watching younger Kihyun and crack videos, I fall asleep. I don’t even realize until the morning light starts to stream in through the windows. My body is cold and stiff. My throat is dry. But worst of all, that scent of cologne and mint is still nowhere to be found. I glance at the clock in the kitchen, hanging above the fridge. 6:30 a.m. Still exhausted but no longer sleepy, I raise from the couch. My hips and back crack and creak. Kihyun’s shirt has last its comfort and warmth. It no longer smells like him. It's just a shirt. A reminder of his absence. It brings a chill down my spine and I wrestle to take it off. My arms get tangled in the excess fabric. I grunt and groan as I all but rip the shirt off me. I toss it against the couch. My anger turns to surprise and fear.

The door lock beeps. Once. Twice. Thrice. And finally, after the fourth number, it sings and unlocks. The motion light by the entrance lights up. The fluorescent lights in the building hallway bleeds into the apartment. The clock in the kitchen reads:

7:00 a.m.


End file.
